My heart is proud, is fiercely glad: my son comes home today.

He left his palace, gave up pomp and power

To uphold his father’s word–

Yet used his might and skill–kingcraft-

To lead armies to victory!

Driblets of news I’ve had over the years-

Despatches folded over and frayed-

I’ve swung between fear and  hope forlorn;

I’ve visited temples and prayed

For Rama and his lovely innocent bride

(Through terrible ordeals has she been tried.)

Fill the urns with scented water,

Strew the streets with flowers,

Erect the triumphal green arches,

Hang banners from the towers!

Hurry, rush, make haste, I say,

For my son is on his way!

But- Hark! I hear the thunder rumble’

Monsoon clouds frown and grumble:

Its turning darker every minute-

All bright colours are turning grey.

Shall Ayodhya welcome her long-lost King

Without a glad display?

The stars lie hid behind the clouds

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